A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“Drunk and jealous,” he whispered. His yellow eyes crawled up to mine. “You’re my only friend.

My family.”

“And?” I slammed the book shut and stood. “I have no family either, Oliver. Did you forget that?

Did you forget that my father is dead, my brother is dead, and my mother has renounced me? I have no money, no home, and no chance at a real life. And now— now—the only three people who are able to look beyond all that . . .” My fingers clenched into fists. “I am about to lose them too.”

Oliver hunched even further into himself. “You still have me.”

“That’s not enough!”

“It was enough for Elijah. He and I used to do everything together.”

“And I am not Elijah.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Trust me: I know. ”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he retorted, his spine unfurling, “you don’t want to learn how to free me. It means you run off with Madame Something-or-other and silly inventors when I’m right here waiting to teach you. Elijah never missed a chance to learn more. Now, do you accept my apology or not?”

“I do not accept.” I glared at him. “One minute you behave like my oldest chum—the spitting image of Elijah. Then the next minute you’re manipulating me . I don’t trust you, Oliver.”

He sniffed. “I never asked you to.”

“No, you’re right. You did not.” I got to my feet. “Yet for some reason you still seem to expect a great deal from me. Elijah might have made you his companion, Oliver, but for me you are nothing but a tool.”

Pain flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by a smug arch to his eyebrow. “I see what you’re trying to do. This has nothing to do with that Daniel fellow at all. You’re afraid of something, and you’re taking it out on me. So what is it, El?” He left the doorway and strode to me, only stopping once he was inches away. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

His eyes held mine—daring me to look away. I did not. “Are you the demon raising les Morts?”

My voice was barely a whisper. “Tell me.”

“And if I do not?” He sneered. “Will you command me? Command your tool?”

“Yes, I will.”

“So do it then.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous, though. You know I can’t do any magic without your command.”

“How do I know that?”

“Well, I suppose you do not know for certain.” He opened his arms. “But go ahead. Ask me for the truth. Just be prepared for the consequences.”

My heart lurched. “What consequences?”

“In a few hours, once Joseph knows about my existence, I really will be all you have left. So even if I am the demon behind les Morts, do you truly want to know?”

I thinned my eyes. “Now I see exactly what you’re trying to do. If I command you, you will hold it against me—hang it over my head as leverage. Elijah used to play the same childish game.” I flipped my hand out and in a mocking voice said, “‘Oh, El, you owe me. Remember that time you blamed me for stealing the cherries?’” I backed away from Oliver, turning dismissively toward the butler’s corpse. “Well, I do not truly think you’re behind les Morts. And I won’t fall for your tricks. Now come here. I want you to take a look at this corpse.”

At that word, Oliver’s footsteps sounded behind me, and together we went to the white sheet.

“This is one of les Morts?” Oliver grabbed the edge of the sheet and yanked back. “I bet I can—oh, blessed Eternity.” His hand flew to his mouth, and his face turned a putrid green.

“Does it bother you?” I set my mouth in a stern line. “You, the boy who wanted me to sacrifice an animal?”

“When I said sacrifice,” he said, his voice muffled by his fingers, “I did not mean this atrocity.”

“How am I supposed to know that? Now, inspect this corpse and tell me if you recognize the spell.”

Oliver gulped and slowly lowered his hands. “I cannot tell much by simply looking. There are thousands of spells it could be. . . .”

“But?”

“But if you command me to, I can sense for the magic.”

“Will you be angry if I command you?”

He shook his head once.

And at that movement the hunger flared in my belly, so sharp and so fierce I could not breathe.

You promised Joseph you would resist. Except this was vital information, wasn’t it? If we could learn the spell, we would be one step closer to stopping les Morts. I had to use Oliver’s magic.

I wet my lips, and before guilt could stop me, I said, “Sense for the spell on this corpse. Sum veritas. ” The magic curled over me, pleasant and warm, before sliding off me like smoke.

Oliver’s eyes flashed blue. Then he snapped them shut, and his brows drew together.

“Well?” I asked. “Can you feel it?”

“Give me a minute,” he growled. But it only took him a few seconds to begin nodding. “There’s something there . . . a faint trace of power around the ears and eyes . . . and the tongue.” His eyelids lifted, and, using the edge of the sheet, he eased open the corpse’s jaw.

We both leaned forward and peered inside. “The tongue is still there,” I said.

“Yes, but look at how slashed and swollen it is.”

“Is that not from all the chomping?”

Oliver’s head flicked once to the side. “No. It was cut. Drained of blood.”

I recoiled. “What does that mean, then? Can you recognize the spell?”

“I think I can, yes.” He straightened, and when his eyes met mine, they were winced with revulsion. “But it’s bad, El. Very bad. I . . . I think it’s a compulsion spell.”

That sounded familiar. I kneaded my wrist, trying to figure out why. Then I remembered. “You mentioned that on the boat, didn’t you? You said to control a person’s actions, you had to sacrifice body parts.” I looked down at the butler. “So this spell is meant to control someone’s ears and eyes and tongue?”

“Yes, what they see, hear, and say . . . but not just one person, El.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there have been over seventy victims.”

The full weight of his words slammed into me, and I stumbled back. “Someone has cast seventy-

two compulsion spells.”

“Except . . .”—he waved toward the corpse’s head—“there are still traces of the magic on this body, which means the spiritual energy from this corpse has not yet been used. It’s still with the body —hoarded, almost.”

I scrunched up my face. “I don’t understand. How is that possible?” I took the sheet from his hands and replaced it over the butler’s face.

“It’s possible with an amulet—an object that holds a spell. The necromancer will build the spell over time, adding more and more spiritual energy to the object. Then one day when he’s ready, he leaves the amulet where he wants it to cast, he goes far away from the danger area, and then . . .”

Oliver’s hands spread wide. “He lets the spell release.”

“Blazes.” I swayed back on my heels. “So it’s an undetonated bomb.”

“Exactly.”

“Does this mean we are up against seventy-two amulets?”

“More likely we’re up against one amulet with seventy-two spells inside.”

“So if Joseph . . . or I wanted to stop it, could we?”

“Not easily. Possibly not at all.” He circled his hands on his temples. “Whenever this necromancer —or demon—finally decides to cast the spell, he’ll gain compulsion over seventy-two people.”